


Step By Step

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: Never before had he seen Combeferre so downcast over something so utterly trivial, but then, Enjolras thought with an unfamiliar pang, if it was so unimportant, why was it that he himself could not bear to see his friend so low over it? Combeferre had gone back to reading, but Enjolras still looked at him, at the little furrow between his brows, at the way the corners of his mouth seemed to droop. Enjolras would have given anything, then, to simply make him happy again. Of course, there was only one thing that could be done.After Courfeyrac becomes concerned about Combeferre's sullenness at a ball, Enjolras endeavors to help.





	Step By Step

January 1831:

“We have not come out to Sceaux before,” Mademoiselle Giroux said, smiling and brushing an unruly lock of hair from her face, her other hand tucked into the crook of her friend’s elbow. “Adaline and I like to keep to the dance halls in Paris. Much closer to our apartment, you know. No need to find a fiacre in the middle of the night.”

“My friends are often the same way,” said Courfeyrac, handing his two new acquaintances glasses of chilled wine. “Why come all the way out here when there is La Grand-Chaumière and all that. But a change of pace is good, I think. Sceaux always has the best music and the best dance partners,” he added, with a little half-bow to make the women smile, “That can be found anywhere.”

“And did you bring any of your friends tonight, Monsieur Courfeyrac?”

“Unfortunately, I could only persuade one to accompany me.” Courfeyrac gestured behind himself at the small group of tables some distance away, where Combeferre had stationed himself when they had first arrived.

The women peered around him.

“That man over there with the spectacles and dove waistcoat?” Adaline, or rather Mademoiselle Masson, asked. “He looks very lonely, and the next set starts up in a minute. Come, Françoise—let’s see if we can get him to dance.”

Though rather touched at Mademoiselle Masson’s good-natured inclusion of his friend, Courfeyrac privately doubted they would be able to make Combeferre abandon his post. Courfeyrac had had quite a lot of trouble merely getting him to come out at all, and when they had arrived Combeferre had taken one look at the dancers before slinking off toward the tables, saying something about saving them seats. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac followed the two ladies over to his friend. At least, he thought, there was enough of a mixed crowd at Sceaux tonight to allow for gentlemen to sit out without depriving any women of dance partners.

Combeferre, turned towards the dance floor as the last song of the set was concluding, was too preoccupied to notice the three others as they approached his table.

Courfeyrac reached out a hand to get his attention. “Combeferre?”

Combeferre jumped, snapped out of whatever reverie he had been in, to look at the three people now in front of him. He fumbled through a “good evening” but was seemingly caught too off guard to cobble together a more appropriate greeting before the silence tipped from acceptable to awkward.

After a hasty and apologetic glance at the women, Courfeyrac said, “Mademoiselles, may I present my dear friend Monsieur Combeferre. Combeferre, this is Mademoiselle Giroux and Mademoiselle Masson. They’ve brought it to my attention that the next set begins soon.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I- Oh.” Combeferre pressed his lips together and looked from Courfeyrac to the women and back again.

“That is to say,” said Courfeyrac significantly, shooting another contrite look at Mademoiselles Giroux and Masson, “The next set of dancing. This is, after all, a public dance hall.”

“I would be honored to be your partner, Monsieur Combeferre, if Françoise is going to dance with Monsieur Courfeyrac,” said Mademoiselle Masson, smiling with such a frank and unassuming friendliness that anyone would have been coaxed out of a bout of shyness.

To Courfeyrac’s relief, Combeferre looked for a moment as though he was actually going to accept, but then he seemed to check himself and said instead, “I- Euh, thank you. But I really should save the table if the three of you would like a seat later on.”

There were, in fact, several tables that were completely empty, and yet more were being abandoned as the eager attendees rose to take to the dance floor once more. Courfeyrac really would have liked to point this out to him, but with Mademoiselle Masson turning away to find a different partner, and Mademoiselle Giroux gently tugging at his arm as the music started up again, he was obliged to turn away. He managed only to cast a stern look at Combeferre, which was ignored as his friend turned to watch the dancers once more.

“I should apologize to your friend,” Courfeyrac said to Mademoiselle Giroux as they positioned themselves for the first dance, a waltz. “Combeferre really is a good sort of fellow, I assure you. A bit prickly if he’s in a mood, I suppose, but reliable and friendly enough. And he can go on and on about almost any topic. I once got him talking on the history of geology for almost half an hour before he realized I was teasing him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry yourself,” said Mademoiselle Giroux mildly. “Adaline is never offended by anything, and it’s not as though her dance card is ever empty.” Her smile was a mix of wryness and warmth. “If he wants to sit and save the table, he can.”

“He was only using that as an excuse to sit out.”

“Of course. But there must be a reason.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

Courfeyrac looked at her with mock suspicion. “And you have a theory, hmm?”

“No, a wild guess.”

“Well?”

“ _Well_ , perhaps he is sitting out due to a misplaced sense of loyalty. Why come to a dance hall and then make excuses not to dance? He came for you, but chooses to sit out.”

It was clear from Mademoiselle Giroux’s tone that she was insinuating something, however jokingly, but Courfeyrac frowned and looked back at Combeferre, still sitting quietly alone, nursing his glass of wine and looking out onto the dance floor as though he would dearly like to join in.

“What is it?” Mademoiselle Giroux’s voice was tinged with laughter. “Did I accidentally stumble on the truth? I’m sure he knows _certain people_ would not mind him dancing, social conventions as they are.” She looked at him meaningfully.

“Me?” Courfeyrac shook his head, managing a smile even though an unsettled feeling had sunk into his gut. “No, no. Our mutual friend- But he is not the dancing sort anyway.”

“Is he the jealous sort?”

Courfeyrac had not thought Enjolras was _any_ sort prior to a few months ago, but he had surprised him all the same. Still, could someone who had devoted himself so completely to the Ideal stoop to such petty feelings as jealousy? Loyally, Courfeyrac said, “I very much doubt it.”

“Well, perhaps Monsieur Combeferre is simply not the dancing sort, and accompanied you so you would not have to come alone,” said Mademoiselle Giroux, shrugging and turning her attention more fully to the movements of the waltz.

This would have been a satisfactory explanation as far as Courfeyrac was concerned, if only whenever he glanced over to check on Combeferre throughout the next two dances, his friend had not looked so pointlessly alone and disappointed, as if wanting to dance yet prevented by some scruple or reservation.

Before the fourth dance of the set began, Mademoiselle Giroux excused herself to go rest her feet and have another glass of wine with Mademoiselle Masson, both flushed from the last quadrille. Courfeyrac, in turn, walked over to rejoin Combeferre at his table, a drink for each of them in hand.

“Having fun, sitting here all by yourself?” he asked, setting one of the glasses of wine in front of Combeferre and then taking a seat himself. “My dear fellow, whatever is the matter? You look positively forlorn.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Combeferre, tearing his eyes away from the dancers as they took to the floor for the next song.

Courfeyrac, too, glanced at the dance floor before asking, trying to keep his voice free from insinuation, “You do want to join in, don’t you? Why don’t you dance with Mademoiselle Masson? She has the most lovely blue eyes—I know how you have a fondness for those.” Courfeyrac smiled at Combeferre’s stone-faced glare at this comment, and then added more seriously, “Why come to Sceaux at all if you don’t want to take part?”

“You are the one who asked me here.” Combeferre ran a finger along the foot of his wineglass and did not meet Courfeyrac’s eye.

Courfeyrac pressed his lips together. “Well, is there something the matter? Did you want to leave? We can, if you like.”

“No, no.” His friend looked up at him, a little smile flickering across his face, though it did not seem entirely sincere. “I’m merely a bit tired. Euh- Hospital work, you know. My internship. You go on, before your partner becomes impatient with you.”He nodded behind Courfeyrac to where Mademoiselle Giroux was surely waiting.

Courfeyrac gave him one last, searching look, but could discern nothing more. He sighed and, feeling rather defeated, rose once again for the next dance.

At the end of the night, Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a fiacre with Mademoiselles Giroux and Masson, dropping them safely back at their shared lodgings before continuing on.

“12 Rue des Marais,” Combeferre told the coachman.

Courfeyrac smirked at him. “Enjolras’ address?”

For possibly the first time that night, Combeferre gave a genuine smile. “I’ve missed my curfew at Necker.”

“That’s what you get when you agree to attend balls with your less studious friends,” Courfeyrac said. He hesitated, then asked, “You did enjoy yourself, didn’t you? I did not mean to ask you to come against your will.”

“I did,” Combeferre assured him, though a slightly strained expression was back on his face. “I would not have agreed to accompany you if I really did not want to attend.” Courfeyrac looked at him skeptically, and Combeferre added hastily, “Euh. The music is always nice.”

Before Courfeyrac could decide whether or not to press his friend more, the fiacre rolled to a stop outside the entrance to the Rue des Marais. Combeferre, seemingly relieved to finally bid Courfeyrac a good night, alighted and walked down the street towards Enjolras’ building.

Courfeyrac slumped back in his seat, at a loss. He was unused to letting a friend’s disappointment or ill humor continue on if he could at all help it. As the fiacre began to move towards his new lodgings on Rue de la Verrerie, he kept Mademoiselle Giroux’s theory at the back of his mind. Perhaps after a chat the next day, Enjolras would be able to set everything aright.

 

* * *

 

The following evening found the Friends of the ABC at their usual location in the back room of the Café Musain. It had been a somewhat informal meeting, called by Enjolras to share his newest correspondence from the Midi, and to ask after everyone else’s; news out of Lyon was looking promising.

Presently, Enjolras was left alone at his table as the room descended into the chatter and levity typical of the time after meetings, in which it was pleasant to surround himself, but less enjoyable to participate. He busied himself instead with organizing his letters from Lyon and Le Puy-en-Velay, amusedly half-listening to Joly describe some fiasco or another to Combeferre involving their latest dissection. Apparently, one of the younger students had been overly zealous with his studies of the face and had ended up ejecting his cadaver’s eyeball, which had then struck their professor in the side of the head. Too busy with his correspondence, and smiling at Combeferre’s laughter as Joly detailed the professor’s expression of horror, Enjolras did not immediately notice that Courfeyrac had seated himself across from him.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras did not give a start, but tore his eyes away from his friends at the other table to look at the one across from him. Far from sporting the usual, cheerful expression Enjolras had expected to see, Courfeyrac was looking quite grave.

“Courfeyrac? Is there something the matter?”

“No.” A line appeared between his brows. “Well, yes.”

Enjolras said nothing, instead observing his friend. Courfeyrac’s shoulders were set stiffly as he fixed his gaze on the letters in Enjolras’ hands, frowning as he apparently weighed exactly what he wanted to say.

After a moment, he decided on, “You know Combeferre and I went to Sceaux yesterday evening.”

Enjolras relaxed a little at that. Whatever was wrong could not be so serious then, if it involved a ball, though he was already a little weary that Courfeyrac had decided to talk to him about it. He had been relieved when Courfeyrac had finally given up on inviting him out anywhere regularly; he no longer had to decline, and subsequently face his friend’s disappointment when he did so. He went back to his correspondence, replying, “Yes, I know.”

“We- Well- Oh!” Never one to enjoy tiptoeing around an issue, Courfeyrac made an exasperated noise. “Enjolras, you- you don’t _mind_ if Combeferre dances with someone else, do you? That is, now that you two are, euh-“ He took a second to search for the correct word. “- _involved?”_

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. He had been expecting a tale of woe involving a lady’s rejection or a lack of good refreshments, and was surprised enough to pause in his work and look up. Courfeyrac was frowning at him as though prepared to tell him off. “No. Why would I mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Courfeyrac relaxed a little, shifting his shoulders and glancing over to where Combeferre was still talking with Joly. “I should have known you wouldn’t. It’s just that he placed himself on the sidelines all evening, claiming excuses to avoid dancing. Yet he was looking at the other people dancing with such an air, as if he would have liked to join in, but something was holding him back.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “It was not me, I assure you.”

“Well, it was _something_. He didn’t mention anything, did he? What might have been the matter?”

When Combeferre had arrived at his flat the previous night, Enjolras had already been asleep, and possessed only fuzzy memories of Combeferre closing the door softly and slipping into bed dressed in one of Enjolras’ nightshirts. “No.”

If Courfeyrac’s concern was that Combeferre had preferred not to dance, Enjolras could not take it very seriously. He gathered up his correspondence once more, and was on the verge of drafting a reply to one of them when Courfeyrac, rising to join another table, delivered a rejoinder that planted a seed of unease in Enjolras’ mind.

“I know balls and parties are not to your liking, Enjolras, but you might find out what was the matter, in any case. He just seemed so terribly _disappointed.”_

 

* * *

 

The unease remained in Enjolras’ mind long after he and Combeferre had quitted the Musain and had set themselves to their own separate tasks in Enjolras’ flat. Combeferre occupied the whole of the sofa, sitting ensconced in a nest of books and notes and diagrams, wholly engrossed in his studies. The armchair was left to Enjolras and though he tried to focus on his reading, he found himself constantly drifting into thought, or else looking over at Combeferre, wondering.

Combeferre did not seem to be out of sorts, nor in low spirits. Perhaps he was a touch more quiet than he normally would have been after a meeting, choosing to study rather than to converse, but he had had a late night and busy day, and it was nothing so out of the ordinary that Enjolras would have been concerned had Courfeyrac not mentioned something. Even now, Enjolras did not particularly want to interrupt Combeferre to question him about a mood he may or may not have had. However, he thought, had not Courfeyrac proven time and again that his aptitude for anything involving other people—at least in a social rather than revolutionary sense—far outweighed his own? Enjolras had never been led astray by heeding his advice in the past. Why should it be any different now?

It took nearly an hour of silence, but eventually Enjolras worked up enough curiosity to say something, though the nonchalance in his voice sounded feigned even to his own ears. “So. Did you enjoy yourself at Sceaux?”

If Combeferre thought the question odd coming from Enjolras, he did not show it. Instead, he stared down at his notes for a moment before replying, “Oh, euh. Yes. It was all right.”

He did not elaborate. Enjolras frowned, then said carefully, “I ask because Courfeyrac appeared a bit disappointed. He said you sat on the sidelines all night and did not dance.”

Combeferre shifted uneasily in his seat, and shrugged.

“You know,” Enjolras continued, choosing his words carefully. “I do not mind if you dance with someone else.”

“Oh, I know.”

Enjolras sat up a bit straighter, setting his book down in his lap, expectant.

Combeferre glanced at him, and forced a laugh as he seemingly went back to his work. “Really, Enjolras, there is no need to look so concerned. It’s just dancing, you know. Whenever I think I can do it, though I’ve never really learned much, I just feel so- What with the winter and its rich food, and taking less exercise outside, I’m afraid I rather- Though I’ve never really been-“ He looked down at himself a little ruefully, and took a deep breath. “It just seems easier for other people.” Combeferre stopped there without really completing the thought.

Beside him in the armchair, Enjolras was silent. It had never occurred to him that Combeferre felt this about himself, viewed himself in such a way. Surely, he thought, what Combeferre was concerned about was unimportant—but then, he was also so clearly unhappy about it. Why had he not noticed before?

Before Enjolras could form a response, Combeferre found his voice again. “I know you think this is all frivolity. Don’t worry yourself about it.” He turned to rifle through a pile of anatomical drawings, not meeting Enjolras’ eye.

Enjolras stared at him. Never before had he seen Combeferre so downcast over something so utterly trivial, but then, Enjolras thought with an unfamiliar pang, if it was so unimportant, why was it that he himself could not bear to see his friend so low over it? Combeferre had gone back to reading, but Enjolras still looked at him, at the little furrow between his brows, at the way the corners of his mouth seemed to droop. Enjolras would have given anything, then, to simply make him happy again. Of course, there was only one thing that could be done.

“You are free tomorrow, aren’t you?” Enjolras asked, trying to sound as though he was asking off-hand.

“Yes, of course,” Combeferre said, looking up, confused as to why he had bothered to ask. “I have a day off.”

“Good.” Somewhat satisfied for the moment, he went back to his book, ignoring the little nag of trepidation in the pit of his stomach.

 

* * *

 

With a heave, Enjolras shoved his sofa against the wall between wardrobe and bed, and then turned back to the middle of the room to pick up the armchair and place it on the other side of the flat near the stove. The desk was already out of the way, now blocking the window. As an afterthought, Enjolras stooped to roll up the rug—which he had bought after giving in to Courfeyrac’s harangues about a lack of color and decoration in his lodgings—and deposited it in the corner. With that, he stood and surveyed the space he had created.

For the first time since arriving in Paris, Enjolras wished he had let a larger flat—perhaps even one with more than one room—but this would have to do.

There came a perfunctory knock on the door before Combeferre opened it, carrying a package of pastries under his arm. He stopped short after closing the door behind him to take in Enjolras’ dismantled room, as well as Enjolras himself standing in the center of it wearing only shirt and trousers.

“Are you, euh, _redecorating?”_ he asked.

Enjolras suppressed a smile. “No. I have merely been thinking about our conversation yesterday.”

“Our conversation?” At this, Combeferre only looked more puzzled. “But which-“

“You had said you wished to dance, but did not feel comfortable.” Enjolras caught himself off guard by feeling foolish, heat rising in his face even as his expression remained impassive. “So, I have decided to help you practice.”

The way Combeferre pressed his lips together made it plain he was trying very hard not to laugh. “You know how to dance?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Yes. And why not?”

“It’s just very-“ Combeferre seemed to cast around for the right word. “Unexpected?”

“One can know how to do something without doing in actuality.”

“Point taken. But-“ Combeferre almost imperceptibly hunched his shoulders.

“Well?”

“You are _willing_ to spend your time teaching me this? Time which you could be using to- to write to our contacts or draft pamphlets or meet with allies, rather than spending it on so inconsequential—on so _useless_ —a pastime?” Combeferre was looking at him carefully, not quite able to hide his incredulity. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

“Is it so useless a pastime, for you?”

“Well, no, but-“ Combeferre broke off as Enjolras moved forward to press his hand.

“I would not have offered if I truly thought it a waste of time.” Enjolras drew nearer, and held Combeferre’s hand to his heart. “My grandaunt, when raising me, had me learn the steps to a handful of dances. She thought it would be useful in the future.” He could not help but give a little grimace at the thought. “Mind, I have not been obliged to dance for many years, and I have never been particularly skilled. You would probably do better to ask Courfeyrac for help instead, but-“

Combeferre let him pause for a moment before prompting gently. “But?”

“I would have you be happy, Combeferre.”

Combeferre blinked up at him; his surprise at this statement was a slight blow to Enjolras, though he strove not to show it. “I do hope you know how dangerous your powers of persuasion are,” Combeferre said at last, giving a smile for the first time, albeit a small one. “All right, then. How do you propose we begin?”

Enjolras had given some thought to this. There were only a few dances he had learned, over a decade ago, that Combeferre would find useful, and less still he remembered well enough to teach. Still, he had come to an answer: “The waltz. It is simple enough, and apparently fashionable.” Privately he added to himself: _And easy enough to feign skill in, should one need to._

“Courfeyrac will be pleased about that,” Combeferre said, plainly trying to sound lighthearted, though looking uneasy again now they were about to set themselves to the task at hand.

In an attempt to set him more at ease, Enjolras smiled, and placed one of Combeferre’s hands around his waist, holding the other in his own. “I know I’m the taller of us, but you would be leading. The music will be in triple time. Are you ready?”

After Combeferre had shed hat, coat, and stock, they began. Enjolras counted the beats to an unheard song for a minute or two before letting his voice trail off to see how Combeferre would cope on his own. For his part, Combeferre started out with a modicum of confidence, but soon lost the rhythm after Enjolras stopped counting. His legs grew stiff, as if he could not decide how much to bend his knees, nor how far to step with each movement of the dance. After having his foot firmly trod on multiple times, Enjolras realized this was not going to work.

He halted them. Face flushed red, Combeferre took a step backwards and away before saying, “Perhaps this is not such a good idea.”

He looked utterly crestfallen, and something in Enjolras’ chest tightened just in looking at him. Trying his utmost not to limp, he closed the distance between them again and placed his hands on Combeferre’s hips, gentle.

“We do not have to continue if you do not wish it. Really, you are not as unskilled as you think you are. You know the movements. You simply need to relax a little more.”

Though he softened a little at Enjolras’ touch, Combeferre did not have to voice his skepticism to make it apparent. Enjolras thought for a moment, then added, “Perhaps a little music would make things easier for you. Why don’t you sing something to accompany us?”

“Sing?”

“Yes.” Standing so near each other, it was impossible to resist leaning down and pressing a kiss to Combeferre’s temple. “It would help with keeping time—and I would like to hear you.”

This coaxed a little smile from Combeferre. “You have said many times how you have no appreciation for music.”

There was any number of wry responses Enjolras might have made, but he said simply, “It is not the music I appreciate.”

Combeferre ducked his head. “I see. Well, we might continue in that case—though your poor feet may never be the same again.”

“Nevermind them. Do you know a song in triple time you might sing?”

There was a sardonic glint in Combeferre’s eye. “ _Ranz des Vaches._ ”

Enjolras gave a surprised laugh. “I- I suppose that might work.”

“I’m not going to sing you any song involving cows.” Combeferre wrapped an arm around Enjolras’ waist and took his other hand, positioning himself for a second attempt. “I should hope you would give me more credit for romance than that.”

“I recall at least once instance of arriving at your flat, expecting us to spend the night together, only to find you halfway through dissecting a severed hand from the medical school.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Combeferre, fighting back a smile.

“You refused to come to bed until you had finished.”

Combeferre laughed. “All right! I give in!” He readied himself to begin the waltz again. “If this is how you feel, then let me make it up to you now.”

The song Combeferre chose rather surprised Enjolras. He had been expecting to hear something from a recent opera—Combeferre went to the theater as often as his studies permitted, and occasionally sang to himself while working—but instead, Combeferre began a folk song. Enjolras supposed this was a piece from Ardèche, where Combeferre was born, as Enjolras himself had never heard it before. Sweet and low, it was well-suited to Combeferre’s gentle, untrained voice, and Enjolras found himself getting lost in the tune, slight muffled as it was sung against his shoulder.

Though he still fumbled now and then, with the music to distract himself Combeferre paid his mistakes less mind, and did not stop their progress as they moved slowly around the room. The only sound heard was his song, and the quiet creak of a floorboard every now and then. A half hour passed, then another, and eventually Enjolras did not have to halt them to correct Combeferre’s posture or step, and could surrender himself fully to the sound of his partner’s voice.

Holding Combeferre so close, though not a rarity these past few months, was something Enjolras perhaps could have stood to appreciate more often. He was not wont to indulge himself, but it was almost inevitable that he should do so now—Combeferre smelled of fresh linens and the warmth of lit stove in winter, felt simultaneously soft and solid in his arms. There was a patch of skin beneath Combeferre’s ear exposed from his loosened shirt collar, which Enjolras could kiss if he bent just a little. He did so once—and then again and again. The room was suddenly very warm.

“It’s curious,” Combeferre said quietly, interrupting the song. Unaware of how little he had been thinking, and of how much he had been leaning against Combeferre, Enjolras was obliged to coax himself back to reality.

“What is so curious?”

“You say your grandaunt required you to learn the waltz when you were young.”

“Yes.”

Combeferre leaned back to look Enjolras in the face, still leading him around the room. “But surely that was a time when it was considered rather scandalous—a dance that leads only to the most licentious of consequences.”

Enjolras tried to keep his voice steady, but he felt his face flush. “Utter nonsense.”

“Hmm.” Combeferre fell into silence, though he did not try to hide his amusement.

A few minutes later, the dance was nearing its conclusion. With one last turn about the room, Combeferre spun them both to a spot. Mingled pleasure and disbelief were written plainly over his face—he had performed the last dance without a single mistake. He looked up, cheeks pink, lips parted in a happy smile, and this sight proved to be too much for Enjolras to bear.

Enjolras kissed him with all the ardor he possessed and Combeferre, embracing him yet tighter, clearly had no objections. In the hazy moments that followed, it crossed Enjolras’ mind that he might have been wrong to wish for a larger flat—as it was, the bed was so conveniently nearby.

The rest of the afternoon was lost to them. Perhaps the waltz did deserve its reputation, after all.

 

* * *

 

“I was the under the impression that the quadrille is danced with, you know, _four_ couples. Or two in a _quadrette._ ”

“It’s true,” Enjolras said. He was walking slowly around his sitting room as if he were inspecting a street for battle, frowning as he planned how best to proceed. “But I understand it is quite a popular dance. You will have to learn it, especially if Courfeyrac persuades you to go out again. He will want you for one of the dancers, I’m sure.”

They had had to wait two weeks for Combeferre to have another day off, January becoming February, and then various other meetings and engagements involving their Society had arisen and taken precedence over dancing. At last they had an opportunity, and though chagrinned at the idea of teaching so long and intricate a dance, Enjolras had decided to help Combeferre learn the quadrille.

Combeferre looked grave at the idea of bearing the brunt of Courfeyrac’s insistence. “I have once seen a caricature of the quadrille which depicted the social disasters that ensue from fumbling with such a quick, complicated dance. I have no desire to bump up against a stranger’s backside.” After a moment he added, “Or the other way around.”

Enjolras gave a small huff of laughter. “And that is why we shall practice.”

Practicing proved easier said than done, however. Without another couple present, Enjolras and Combeferre were obliged to imagine that other people were there and pretend to dance with them accordingly. Then, there were so many different movements, figures, and exchanging of partners that Enjolras was frequently required to switch which part he was playing, or else describe what the other people would doing at any given moment.

Nevertheless, he did his best to explain the six figures of the _quadrille français,_ which Combeferre followed as well as he could: “-at the start of the _pantalon_ , you must bow to the woman next to you before turning and beginning the dance with the other-“ and “-hold a moment, during this stage, you must lead both women. Not quite so rapidly.”

“I feel utterly foolish,” Combeferre said, while learning the quick step portion of the été.

In truth, Enjolras felt the same, but he said nothing. If he was ever to perform a dance in a public setting, unlikely as that may be, the quadrille was certainly not the one he would have chosen.

It took several hours—much longer than the easier waltz—but eventually Combeferre began to become more deft and confident at it. The rapid steps during the été were difficult at first, but after mastering that, Combeferre could easily do the _pantalon_ , _été, poule, pastourelle,_ and _trénis._ This left only the _galopade_ , the quickest part of the dance.

“I suppose there are certain aspects of the waltz that apply here,” said Combeferre, slowing down considerably to piece his way through a _rond du galop._

He took a misstep, causing Enjolras to trip over his foot and topple to the floor. “Oh dear.” Combeferre flushed again, but instead of stopping and backing away as he had done while practicing the waltz, he gave a laugh and stooped to help Enjolras to his feet again. “I’m sorry! Can we attempt that again? I’m certain I almost have it.”

“We can,” said Enjolras, holding one smarting hand in the other; he had scraped his palm on the floor. “And you were nearly correct. Your foot merely descended at the wrong angle.”

“Thank you.” Combeferre took his hand and, with the shadow of a grin, kissed it. “There. In lieu of medical treatment, as I did not bring my supplies.”

The sun was setting, casting its brilliant orange-pink illumination through the windows, before the pair decided to stop. If Enjolras was perfectly honest with himself, Combeferre had become more or less competent at the dance an hour or so before, but he had been smiling so much, laughing as they worked their way through the dance again and again, that Enjolras was reluctant to put an end to his enjoyment.

By this time, the pair were both tired and hungry, and with Enjolras’ furniture still pushed out of the way, the bed was the only free space to sit and rest. With Combeferre perched at the edge of the mattress, Enjolras lay back with his head in his lap, and was exceedingly pleased when Combeferre absentmindedly began to stroke through his hair.

“I feel I ought to treat you to dinner, with all the work you’re doing for me,” Combeferre said quietly, laying the hand not tangled in Enjolras’ hair across his chest. “Would you like to go? I walked by a café earlier which I would like to try.”

“Perhaps in a little while.” It was so difficult to keep his eyes open, but he did not miss Combeferre’s warm expression.

“I’ve worn you out completely. You see, this is what comes from generosity. You have sacrificed your time to help me indulge in frivolities and have ended up exhausted and hungry, with your flat in disarray.” Despite these words, there was no guilt in Combeferre’s voice, for which Enjolras was privately glad.

After a moment, Combeferre added, “I could go and bring you something back to eat. I might be able to make it to that bakery on the corner before it closes.”

“There is no need.” Enjolras brought a hand up to press Combeferre’s, still resting on his chest. “Just- Stay here.”

“I could hardly think of leaving.”

“With me lying on you?”

“Well, that too.”

As though he was not wholeheartedly indulging himself already, warmth flooded Enjolras’ chest, and he settled snugly into it. After stroking through the length of his hair, Combeferre began to smooth back the stray strands at Enjolras’ forehead and temples; Enjolras could not help giving a satisfied sigh. It crossed his mind that if he was going to fall sleep like this, he should at least remove his shoes, but moving now seemed impossible.

Instead, in a vain attempt to keep himself awake a little longer, Enjolras cracked his eyelids open and said, “So, what do you think of the quadrille?”

“Complicated, but enjoyable.” Combeferre smiled down at him. “I have the feeling it will be much easier once I actually have a proper group with whom to dance. If I can’t remember any one part, I can look around me for a hint at what to do.” He paused for a moment. “But…”

Enjolras’ heart momentarily sank. “But?”

“Well, I must say- As fun and lively as the quadrille is, I can’t help but make comparisons.” Combeferre was still smiling, but it had become tinged with something very like mischief. “It’s too bad you are so tired. There are certain, very _particular_ aspects of the waltz I liked rather better.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras would never have thought, even just a few months previously, that he would ever find himself in his present predicament. In the true warmth and optimism of his character, Courfeyrac had invited Combeferre to Sceaux again. Ostensibly, it was for a Sunday outing following Courfeyrac’s birthday on the 15th of February, but it was also clear he felt he owed Combeferre an enjoyable night out, not truly knowing what had been bothering Combeferre previously. Combeferre had accepted the invitation, leaving Enjolras with a peculiar feeling, one akin to that anticipation that had characterized the days leading up to the 27th of July.

He had also been left in a quandary. Though Combeferre had shown real progress during their first two days of practice, Enjolras’ resources for teaching him were running short. After pondering at length over the dances he could still remember, hindered by the fact that most were no longer in fashion at the dance halls so beloved by students, Courfeyrac’s invitation forced him into a decision.

“We are pressed for time; you will go to Sceaux in only a week and this is our only free day left to practice.” Enjolras was surveying his flat for the final time, ensuring they had enough room. “I have thought about it, and I am going to help you practice the cancan. I never learned it,” he added, after catching sight of Combeferre’s surprised expression. “It did not exist in its current form when I was learning. It is quick and difficult, and becoming popular in dance halls these days. Between the cancan and the quadrille, you can learn anything.”

Combeferre’s dubious expression cleared and he said gamely, “All right. I’m sure we’ve both sat and watched our friends enough to piece together most of the dance.”

They began, and it struck Enjolras that it was perhaps for the last time. He had but one moment to feel oddly, unexpectedly melancholy about this, but it ended when Combeferre’s foot caught his own, and they both tipped over.

“Sorry,” Combeferre said. He was lying on top of Enjolras, looking down at him, amused and without a trace of uncertainty at his mistake. Indeed, he seemed rather pleased with himself—so pleased, in fact, that as he leaned down for a kiss, Enjolras had to wonder if Combeferre had tripped him on purpose. _However_ , Enjolras thought as Combeferre shifted slightly to press warm kisses over his jaw and down his neck, it was not as though he had any objections to make about this.

The afternoon seemed to be well on its way to becoming like the one following their practice of the waltz, but after a few minutes—or perhaps a bit longer than that—Enjolras reluctantly turned his face away and said a little breathlessly: “No. You- You need to practice without distraction.”

“Oh, very well.” Combeferre heaved himself to his feet before bending down to give Enjolras a hand up. “You know, I’m surprised you’ve chosen the cancan to teach me. You’re from Auvergne; shouldn’t you be teaching me the bourrée?”

“The bourrée has become a court dance, rather than remaining solely a folk dance. Monarchy has _adopted_ it.” Enjolras cast a look of distain at the notion of it. “The cancan is rather more liberal-spirited than that.”

“I never thought you would view a dance as an act of rebellion,” replied Combeferre, readying himself again. “Don’t let Courfeyrac hear you say that, or he will use it as leverage to lure you out to a ball!”

“I will bear that in mind,” said Enjolras, not quite concealing his amusement. “Come, shall we begin again?”

In truth, the cancan, having developed from the last figure of the quadrille, did not feel wholly unfamiliar. The steps were reminiscent of the _galopade,_ only performed with such extreme rapidity that both Enjolras and Combeferre were struggling to keep up the pace. Within ten minutes, Enjolras lost count of how many times they had inadvertently kicked and tripped over one another. At first, he wondered whether Combeferre would want to stop as he had before, saying he felt foolish—Enjolras certainly did—but Combeferre was nearly breathless with laughter at how energetically—and clumsily—they were moving, and after a while, Enjolras could not help but join in.

Despite their stumbling, Enjolras had never seen Combeferre looking so delighted while dancing. Every step he took, right or wrong, was made with sureness, he corrected his errors easily, and was laughing off his mistakes without any loss of confidence. Enjolras was pleased; perhaps this change was a greater victory than merely learning the steps.

It took them about two hours to perform the cancan, or at least something approximating it, with minimal mistakes. With a final flourishing step, the dance ended, and before Enjolras could say a word of praise, Combeferre’s arms were around his neck and he found himself being thoroughly kissed.

“There, now!” Combeferre pulled away just enough to look Enjolras in the face. “I think that’s it.”

“Indeed.” Despite the smallest, strangest pang of dismay at Combeferre’s words, Enjolras managed to look pleased. He wrapped his arms around him. “All that is needed now is to put your new skill to use.”

 

* * *

 

The following Sunday evening found Enjolras and Combeferre standing at the intersection of the Rue des Marais and the Rue de Seine, for the former, on which Enjolras’ lodgings were located, was too narrow to accommodate carriages. Courfeyrac had promised to come collect Combeferre in a fiacre and Enjolras, who was initially going to stay behind, had let Combeferre persuade him to attend as well.

The pair were somewhat huddled together as they waited, as their nicest ball-worthy clothes did not do much to protect them against the winter cold. Enjolras had been obliged to dig through the very back of his sparse wardrobe to find his best frock coat, which he had not worn since the previous year. He had even managed to find two well-cut waistcoats to layer. If this was an occasion for Combeferre, he might as well dress well for it, and was presently being rewarded for his efforts with Combeferre’s appreciative glances while they waited.

Never late to any engagement, Courfeyrac rolled up in front of them a few minutes later in a fiacre, and signaled to the driver to stop. He threw open the carriage door with an enormous grin, though his expression quickly shifted to one of surprise once he spotted both of them standing there.

“ _Enjolras?_ What-"

“I hope you do not mind that I have invited myself,” said Enjolras, climbing into the carriage before turning to give Combeferre a hand up as well.

“Not- Not at all,” said Courfeyrac, sitting back in his seat to make room for them. “The more the merrier, you know…” And though he chattered happily enough with the other two once the carriage began to move again, he kept shooting quizzical looks at Enjolras all the way to the southern outskirts of Paris. 

The carriage slowed to a stop outside the dance hall amongst the multitude of other cabriolets and fiacres bringing the denizens of Paris and its neighboring towns out for an evening of diversion. Combeferre jumped down heavily from their own carriage and walked around to the front to settle the fee with the driver, but Courfeyrac caught Enjolras by the arm before he could follow.

“What is going on?” Courfeyrac hissed. “You, attending a ball—and of your own free will! I’m certain Combeferre could not _make_ you. Is this a sign of the end of days?”

“Not that I know of,” said Enjolras dryly. “I have merely followed your suggestion in discovering the source of Combeferre’s aversion to dancing and helped him to overcome it.”

“And you’ve come to see the fruits of your labor, have you?” Courfeyrac asked with a genuine laugh.

Enjolras glanced out of the carriage at Combeferre, who was looking exceedingly cheerful as he walked back around the fiacre to see where his friends had got to. “Something like that.”

Pleased, Courfeyrac squeezed his arm affectionately before jumping down from the carriage. Enjolras alighted as well, not paying much heed to his fellow attendees nor the rich decor as he followed his friends inside the dance hall. The whole of the place was extremely crowded this evening; nearly twice as many people were in attendance as the last time Courfeyrac and Combeferre had come. Yet more were streaming in, laughing and chatting, waving as they spotted friends who had already arrived.

For a moment, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac stood just inside the entrance, nearly overwhelmed by the mass of people and unsure of where they should place themselves first. A moment later, they heard a voice from one side.

“I see you’ve brought someone else to save your table this time, Messieurs!”

The three men turned, and Enjolras spotted two women approaching, one with a wry gleam in her eye, the other smiling welcomingly.

“We have indeed, unless either of you could use your powers of persuasion to entice him to dance,” said Courfeyrac, laughter in his voice as he glanced at Enjolras. “Enjolras, may I present Mademoiselle Giroux and Mademoiselle Masson, our lovely acquaintances from our last excursion here. Mademoiselles, this is Monsieur Enjolras, a good friend and guarder of tables."

“Does this mean Monsieur Combeferre is free to dance tonight?” asked Mademoiselle Masson, her gentle voice laced with mirth.

Combeferre reddened slightly, but did not falter when he answered, “I would be happy to, Mademoiselle, if you would do me the honor of saving the first dance for me.” He paused before adding, “And of accepting my apologies for my reticence the last time we met.”

“There is no need for apologies!” Mademoiselle Masson said kindly. “Of course I would be delighted to dance with you.”

“And we seem to have arrived just in time for you to do so, too,” Courfeyrac added, looking out onto the dance floor at the couples quickly populating it. “It appears a waltz is about to begin. Mademoiselle Giroux, would you be so kind as to dance with me again?”

Mademoiselle Giroux was happy enough to oblige him, and they left to position themselves on the floor. Mademoiselle Masson waited patiently for Combeferre, but before following her, Combeferre turned to Enjolras tentatively.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right here by yourself?”

“Yes, of course.” Enjolras pressed Combeferre’s hand briefly. “You go and enjoy yourself.”

As it was still early in the evening and everyone in attendance was still lively, enthusiastic to be at Sceaux, the dance floor was completely full, leaving Enjolras with his pick of empty tables at which to sit. He chose one slightly off to the side of the room, though still within full view of the dancers.

Combeferre was halfway across the room, though still in sight, and Enjolras sat back to watch him, leaning to this side or that if another couple chanced to block his view. Out of the corner of his eye, he perceived Courfeyrac dancing with Mademoiselle Giroux, who shot him an interested glance ever so often, which Enjolras staunchly ignored.

Though he did not possess the playful elegance of Courfeyrac, nor the technical skill of Enjolras, Combeferre looked in high spirits as he danced, laughing, chatting away happily with Mademoiselle Masson as they moved about the room. Enjolras smiled to himself.

As the song ended, Combeferre stayed on the dance floor with Mademoiselle Masson, along with the majority of the people who had already been there. A short distance away, Mademoiselle Giroux excused herself from Courfeyrac with a little limp. Though Courfeyrac seemed to voice his concern about her, she waved him off, and so he did not accompany her, instead giving her a short bow before spotting another acquaintance and hurrying over to say hello. Mademoiselle Giroux delicately made her way over to Enjolras’ table. He stiffened.

“These shoes!” She sat in the chair across from Enjolras, lifting a foot to inspect for any damage. “I don’t expect men must deal overmuch with pinching shoes. It’s decidedly unfair.”

“It seems so,” said Enjolras, who possessed no knowledge of women’s shoes and was quite at a loss of how to respond.

Mademoiselle Giroux gave a small laugh, and bent to rub at her heel. Enjolras, having nothing to say, said nothing, and turned back to the dancers, who had begun a quick _galop_.

“I was lucky to have sat out when I did—I could never have coped with that! Better to be here, keeping you company.” This was said in a way that plainly was meant to coax Enjolras into a conversation.

“It is lucky,” Enjolras agreed, before he could realize that this could be taken the wrong way.

“You don’t do much talking, do you, Monsieur Enjolras?” she observed, though not unkindly. “I suppose I can appreciate that. It’s curious that you should be friends with so gregarious a person as Monsieur Courfeyrac. Monsieur Combeferre seems rather more your sort. Still, it takes all kinds to make a world; it never ceases to amaze me the people one may meet by mere chance.” She paused, during which Enjolras looked fixedly at Combeferre’s happy face from across the room. “It is such a shame,” she continued, halfway wistful and halfway cautious, “We cannot always dance with the partner of our _true_ preference.”

This was too much. Enjolras turned to her, but before he could deliver a firm rebuff, he stopped. She was looking, not at him, but at the dance floor, her gaze following the swift, exuberant movements of Mademoiselle Masson. She turned to him, knowingly, and Enjolras softened.

“Yes. It- it is a shame,” he said, with a bit more warmth.

“Well,” she said, though her smile was not without a shadow of disappointment. “It does seem they are having quite enough fun without us.”

But just as she was finishing her statement, the _galop_ ended and the next dance was announced. 

“A _quadrille!”_ cried Mademoiselle Giroux. “I do love this dance. And our friends will be needing two more people.”

Indeed, Combeferre and Mademoiselle Masson were looking around at them, smiling, expectant. Enjolras looked back at them with consternation.

“I am willing to suffer a little to preserve the general cheer,” said Mademoiselle Giroux, getting decidedly, though gingerly, to her feet. She held out a hand to him. “And you?”

Under any other circumstances, Enjolras would have flatly refused, but he made the mistake of looking again at the pair waiting for him. Combeferre’s hopeful face sealed his face. He got to his feet.

Mademoiselle Giroux smiled teasingly. “Steady yourself, Monsieur. You will get through this in one piece.”

She was only partially correct. The quadrille was, somehow, both more and less difficult when performed in a dance hall rather than with Combeferre in his flat. On the one hand, Enjolras had the music to guide him, and three other people to look to for cues, but the music was fast, growing more quick with each figure. By the time the final one began, Enjolras felt as though he was holding on to the rhythm of the dance by a thread. He wondered for a moment how Combeferre would cope with it, and whether he might be too embarrassed to continue should he make an error, but he himself ended up catching a foot on the hem of Mademoiselle Masson’s skirts, and collided with Combeferre’s backside. For his part, Combeferre burst out laughing, even as he reached out a steadying hand to grasp Enjolras’ arm.

“Ah, perhaps I was wrong,” laughed Mademoiselle Giroux, slipping a hand into Mademoiselle Masson’s. “It seems you ended up with the right partner after all!”

 

* * *

 

Later on, after the ball was over and the evening was done, Combeferre accompanied Enjolras back to his lodgings. Tired and warm, cocooned in a soft nightshirt and blankets, Enjolras was half asleep the moment he had climbed into bed. The furniture was all back in its place; Combeferre was lying snug against his chest. Everything was as it should be.

Before Enjolras could completely drift off, Combeferre moved to wrap an arm over him, laying his head over his heart. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Enjolras shifted beneath him, wanting to draw him closer. “So you enjoyed yourself then?”

“Yes.” Combeferre rolled over, resting his chin on Enjolras’ chest so that he could look at him. “Mademoiselle Masson was very nice. I mentioned a bit of our work to her—just small snippets, mostly about our pamphlets—and she seemed interested, especially in those involving education. We should certainly speak with her again, and see if she would like to contribute in some way. And you seemed to be getting on well with Mademoiselle Giroux.”

“We have certain things in common,” Enjolras said simply, sleepily lifting a hand to brush his fingers along Combeferre’s cheek.

Combeferre leaned into his touch. “So it would seem.” He gazed at Enjolras for a moment, chewing his lip. “Still, it’s a shame.”

Enjolras dropped his hand. “What is?”

“Well, I was rather enjoying our dancing sessions.” He reached up and playfully flicked a lock of hair from Enjolras’ eyes. “Though I’m sure you must be breathing a sigh of relief, now that you won’t have to practice with me any more. You are free to do as you please, and reject dancing as a frivolity unworthy of your attention once more.”

“Hmm.”

There was a knowing, almost impish look in Combeferre’s eye as he looked at Enjolras, waiting for him to continue. “What is it?”

Enjolras shrugged as well as he could with Combeferre lying partially atop him. “I was thinking—perhaps I will teach you the bourrée after all.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. We cannot let monarchy have the final word on that dance.” He drew Combeferre up towards himself for one last kiss before sleep, and earned a delighted smile. “What do you say? Are you free to dance tomorrow?”


End file.
